


The Ticking Clock

by PoliteTrash



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Brooklyn, Feels, Ghosts, Guilt, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Oneshot, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sad, Stucky - Freeform, War Era, prelude to Captain America: The Winter Soldier, stevexbucky - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 23:10:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4684784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoliteTrash/pseuds/PoliteTrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Every so often, we all gaze into the abyss. It's a depressing fact of life that eventually the clock expires; eventually the sand in the hourglass runs out. It's the leaving behind of everything that matters to us that hurts the most." ~ Ben Shapira</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ticking Clock

**Author's Note:**

> Minor mention of internalised homophobia

His rough fingertips flooded over his eyelids as he tried to wash away the guilt in his consciousness. A frown not familiar to the world rested upon his face like a scar from a harrowing battle. Feet and heart heavy alike; he stood outside his thin apartment door as if it would protect him from the steps he would inevitably take. He knew that nothing would protect him now, but it was irrational to lose hope. Losing hope means losing everything.

He inhaled the stench of rotting wood and cigarette smoke, allowing it to invade his body. This he would miss. The way the floor creaked under the pressure of his stance as he waited oh so hesitantly in front of his home. There was no need to be scared, he told himself. War was predictable. Death or victory. 

His hands clutched nothing as they balled into fists and into palms and long fingers again and again. Deep breaths urged him to just open the door already damnit. Cool metal greeted his hands, coarse from manual labour that left his clothes soaked with sweat and his arms covered in grease. The cold was reassuring to his body, it grounded him. 

He came to his senses, or what was left of them. He must be mad; contracting his death and promising his hours. Steve was still inside. Bundled up in the blankets that itched but smelled sweet and welcoming. An uncomfortable embrace around his small frame. Another would be needed, Bucky noted to himself. The temperature had dropped considerably since he had left.

He had told Steve he was going to get coffee since they'd run out that morning. Steve and Bucky knew that coffee didn't take all day to get or leave you nervous and aching with the scent of whiskey cloaking your breath. It was too late to care. His mistakes had been made. He pushed those persistent thoughts aside and opened the door as quietly as he dared.

Stepping in to the dim room, he shut the door with an almost inaudible click. He could hear his heart thrumming in his chest like a wild animal escaping confinement. Bucky stooped to untie the laces of his work boots, back aching. He removed them and left them near the door, next to where Steve used to put his own shoes. He didn't go out as much now that Autumn was here, and Steve had stopped acting like he was going to get better.

Slipping off his jacket, he treaded silently to the far end of the room to where the makeshift bed stood. He let it drop to the floor and pulled up a chair to sit on. The gentle scraping of furniture on floor wasn't enough to wake up the sleeping angel in the bed. 

Bucky couldn't help but feel like a traitor. All the times they'd played soldiers together, pirates, Kings and emperors, it somehow didn't feel right that they wouldn't be the unit they were both so accustomed too. On Barnes' behalf, he often thought he was too accustomed.  The slightest hitch in Steve's breath or even the faintest wobble in his walk and Bucky knew. There was no fooling him. He could read Steve like a book, and to him it was the most glorious story to ever be written.

Bucky often wondered what other people would think of him. Reputation was key to moving forward in the world. A flash of his charming smile and a tip of the hat had got him this far, and he couldn't be more content than sitting in the dark with the moonlight filtering through the window just enough, so that it looked like the night sky was kissing Steve gently on the forehead.

Reputation meant nobody could know. Reputation meant Bucky would dance with the young girls to make them feel special, the older ones to be polite, and the ones his age to keep the wrong ideas at a distance. Everything seemed to be the wrong idea that night. Enlistment papers hidden in the jacket on the ground made sure he remembered that there was no going back now. War is always a bad idea, but not giving everything he had seemed even worse. 

The honour of being a military man only appealed to him because he knew how much Steve valued the armed forces. Bucky knew he ought to strive to do his best for the country, the place he was born and bred. A real Brooklyn kid. That was never the truth though, and the soon-to-be-soldier had a hard time convincing himself his own lie. It was a universal truth that no matter where Bucky went or who he went with, the only person he wanted to be a hero for was Steve. It was all he had ever needed. He saved Steve for himself, he'll save America for everyone else. 

New York wanted Bucky to be a hero, a man with a gun to win against the Nazi's. It didn't matter what Bucky wanted to be anymore. Things like that fade away when you grow up and realise that the way you look at your best friend isn't the way the Lord intended. They say that God knows everything. Bucky thought to himself that maybe this was his punishment. He was to die with his secret tucked in his heart and his pocket in a snowy European landscape. That was all he'd ever be now that he'd given up his body in favour of another.

He poured his eyes over Steve, hoping to burn the image of him resting into his mind forever so that it remained untainted and within reach. The way his eyelashes rested on the dark tired skin around his eyes was mesmerising in a saddening way. He knew it would end. Either he'd fall asleep to the unsteady rhythm of Steve's chest rising and falling, or the sun would interupt him, and remind him that the real world was waiting for them both. 

In reality, it was neither that ended the moment. The scene spoiled itself, because it really was too good to be true. Bucky heard Steve coughing before he saw his body shuddering. Steve scrambled up as his body rejected the illness inside him. Bucky didn't falter to rise quickly and deftly from his seat to the sink they couldn't really call a kitchen. He filled a glass near by with water and returned to his bedridden love with worry on his mind. "I could tell him right now", he thought to himself. "I could tell him I've enlisted right now and he wouldn't even remember." Looking into Steve's eyes as he plucked the glass out of his hand, all will to do anything but observe the fine art before him left him.

"Quit ya staring Buck, you're acting like you've seen a ghost." Steve whispered as if there was another person asleep in the room. More coughing. 

"Maybe I have." Bucky murmured back to him, widening his eyes in mock horror. Mock, because it wasn't ghosts he was scared of. Not the kind Steve was thinking of anyway. 

A mix between a sigh and a laugh left Steve's mouth as he made himself comfortable again. Heaven knows how anyone could sleep in a place like this, but he managed anyway. Thank every god under the sun Steve was too out of it to question why Bucky hadn't gone right to bed or why he'd been gone all day while Steve lay in bed with a fever.

James Barnes thought himself a coward. To avoid his own feelings he'd signed up for a war he may never come home from. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. He was brave with booze but that's not what made a person. Cowardice is hiding in the face of failure. It may have been minutes, or even hours. He didn't know when he said it, though it's what he had known since the moment he enlisted. So he whispered, unsure if he was talking to himself or the light not unlike the moon beside him

"I may not have seen a ghost Stevie, but forgive me if I become one"


End file.
